


The Moment Pleasantly Frightful

by teahigh (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, References to Suicide, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 03:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/teahigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't kiss him all at once. He takes John apart, piece by piece, until there's nothing left of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Moment Pleasantly Frightful

**Author's Note:**

> I am in no way a doctor, detective or scientist, so there are probably a few inaccuracies here. The car-crashing game described herein is a nod to Chuck Palahniuk's novel “Rant”, and one of the cases mentioned is “The Boscombe Valley Mystery”. Thank you so, so much to to **ballpointcrazy** , **elfyne** , **augustbird** and **andrandiriel** for the last-minute and awesome beta-jobs/looking over this for me/general helpfulness. All remaining mistakes and/or wtfery are my own - please let me know should you see any!
> 
>   **Other warnings: Contains references to necrophilia and the disembowelment of a corpse.** Title from EE Cummings' poem “sometimes i am alive because with”.
> 
> Translated into Chinese by [Ullivia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ullivia)! Available [here](http://www.mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=85049&extra=page%3D1%26filter%3Dtypeid%26typeid%3D29%26typeid%3D29)  
> Sequel: [Achieving the Together-Coloured Instant](http://archiveofourown.org/works/597853)

For five months, John pretends Sherlock Holmes is still dead. 

At first he thinks it'll be easy since he's had a year's worth of practise. He avoids Baker Street, he doesn't go to Barts, and he doesn't set foot near Scotland Yard. It should be easy enough; he has no reason to visit Molly at work, he's sure Mrs Hudson will understand, and Lestrade would rather go for drinks at the pub than stay at the office longer than needed, anyway.

But it's not easy. Sherlock's face is everywhere – on the television, in the paper, even online. John can't look at him, not even the pixel or paper versions of him. Each time one crosses his line of vision it feels like a slap in the face, like a taunt.

It's been over a year since Sherlock jumped from the roof of Bart's. John mourned, he went back to therapy and he couldn't sleep. For the longest time John thought Sherlock's death was his fault.

Now, John knows that the only person to blame for Sherlock's death is Sherlock himself.

₪₪₪

The first time John sees Sherlock after his return, he's in the supermarket picking out cereal.

John turns the corner and slams to a halt. His trolley screeches on the floor and Sherlock glances up. They stare at one another for a moment before John pulls his cart out of the aisle and hurries off to the other end of the building.

He lingers in the produce section for nearly half an hour before he decides it's safe to proceed. When he returns to the cereal aisle, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen and John is able to complete his shopping in peace.

₪₪₪

The second time, Sherlock is on the tube.

John gets off two exits early. He's almost certain Sherlock didn't see him.

₪₪₪

The third time, John is sitting in the park feeding a family of ducks. They peck at the grass around his shoes, quacking and wiggling their tails. John never saw the appeal of feeding ducks before, but he had a loaf of stale bread and the day off, so he figured he might as well. He finds that he doesn't mind it so much.

He feels Sherlock watching him before he sees him. John glances over his shoulder and sighs. If it were anyone else, John thinks, this would be more than a little creepy. Sherlock stands a few feet away, silent.

“Why are you following me?” John asks.

“I'm not,” Sherlock says.

“Yes you are.”

Sherlock hesitates. “Maybe.”

“Well. Don't,” John says. He brushes breadcrumbs off his hands and rises from the bench. 

He can feel Sherlock watching him as he walks away.

₪₪₪

John notices a black car parked outside his flat. He ignores it and goes to work.

It's there again the next day, and the next. It's there over the weekend, too. John watches it from the safety of his living room.

On Monday, John passes it as he walks to the tube. Then he stops, turns around, and walks back to the car. He knocks on the driver's side window and waits for the glass to roll down. The driver turns to him, eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

“I have a message for your boss,” John says. “So, if you could, tell him that I say to _fuck right off_.”

John smiles at the driver, then starts walking again. From behind him he can hear the car starting, the wheels rolling on the pavement. The car passes John as he walks, then turns a corner and disappears.

John doesn't see the car again.

₪₪₪

John's phone rings. He picks it up before he notices the number.

“You do realize there are ways I can get you to speak to him again, yes?” Mycroft asks.

John snorts. “Are you honestly going to blackmail me into being friends with your brother again?”

“Blackmail?” Mycroft asks. “No, Doctor Watson. It's hardly blackmail if it's what you want.”

“You don't know the _first thing_ about what I want,” John snaps, then hangs up.

₪₪₪

Mrs Hudson visits him, equipped with banana loaf and a box of tea.

John is enjoying a second cup when Mrs Hudson says, “He asks about you.”

John runs his finger around the mouth of his mug and stays quiet. He can feel the steam from his tea against his skin.

“He doesn't understand why you won't speak to him,” Mrs Hudson continues. 

John scoffs. “He doesn't – _he_ , the world's only consulting detective, the smartest man I've ever met – probably the smartest man in London – doesn't understand?” 

“You know how he is, dear,” Mrs Hudson says. John ignores her.

“He killed himself in front of me,” John snaps. “And then I find out a year later that the whole thing was a set-up, that it was some fucking joke. What, to prove he was clever? Because he was bored and that was the only way—”

John closes his eyes and tries to steady his breathing. 

“Oh, John,” Mrs Hudson whispers. John looks up at her.

“Has no one told you?” she asks. “I would have thought Inspector Lestrade...”

“What?” John asks. “Told me what?”

“That fellow, Moriarty, he had an assassin on you – on all of us. Lestrade and myself as well,” Mrs Hudson says. “They were going to kill us if Sherlock didn't jump. When Sherlock tried to reason with him...”

John stares at her.

“Then why didn't he come back?” he asks.

“I guess, shortly after that one of them realized Sherlock was alive,” Mrs Hudson says.

“He could have come to me,” John says. “I would have helped.”

“According to him, this man was dangerous and threatened to kill you. Sherlock didn't want to risk it,” Mrs Hudson says. “Just the other day, he said to me, 'I would much rather live in this world knowing John was alive and hating me, than live knowing John died still believing in me.'”

₪₪₪

That night, John allows himself one look.

One article about Sherlock, with one photograph, he promises himself. That's it.

An hour later, he's going through every photo on his phone, taking a moment to remember what happened on the day he took it. Each time a new photo loads on his screen, John feels a little bit lighter.

₪₪₪

The next day, John calls him.

Sherlock picks up after the first ring.

Before he has a chance to speak, John says, “I forgive you.”

₪₪₪

Three days later, John tags along on his first case in over a year.

It ends very much the same way as their first case together ended – and many cases after – with Sherlock turning to him and asking, “Dinner?”

₪₪₪

John laughs.

He laughs so hard his sides hurt. He trips over his own feet, but he doesn't care. The case was laughable, dinner was a disaster, and he's being absolutely ridiculous. He doesn't care, because he can't remember the last time he laughed this hard. Sometime before Sherlock's death, no doubt. Sherlock lets him grab on to his arm in order to steady himself, coat soft and warm under his hand. When John regains his composure he finds Sherlock smiling at him, tucking his hands into his pockets.

They stop walking. John lets go of Sherlock's arm. 

“Right,” he says. “Why have we stopped?”

“Baker Street,” Sherlock tilts his head and John looks up at the building. Familiar windows and brickwork, just as warm and welcoming as always. It's been nearly a year since John's stood in front of this building. 

“Ah,” he says. “Right.”

Sherlock bites at his bottom lip and looks down. He fiddles with his keys. It's been a long time, but John still remembers that look. He has missed that look more than he'll ever care to admit. Missed the way it made his chest feel full and his body feel warm. 

Sherlock looks at him again, eyes soft and pupils big in the dim orange glow of the streetlight. It has started to snow, small flakes gathering in dark curls, and John thinks it's funny. It's funny how this is the oldest Sherlock has ever been, and yet he still seems so painfully young.

“Would you like to come up for tea?” Sherlock asks. 

John smiles. “I would, actually.”

₪₪₪

There's a fire waiting for them upstairs when they arrive. Courtesy, no doubt, of Mrs Hudson. John is glad to know she's still looking out for Sherlock. God knows he'll never do it himself.

Sherlock pulls off his scarf and tosses it aside before wandering away into the kitchen. There's a clatter of dishes being moved around the sink and the tap being fiddled with. John feels giddy, his body still thrumming with adrenaline from the case. He feels like he did back in university, when a girl he fancied brought him home for the first time. Happy just to be there, happy to be spending time in the company of someone he cared about.

It's a bit weird to think about. But then Sherlock hands him a mug of a steaming, homemade chai latte and John realizes he doesn't really mind if it's weird or not.

“So,” Sherlock says, plopping down into his chair. “What are you going to call this one?”

John blows on his mug and shrugs. “The Red-Head Club?” 

“He wasn't actually a red-head, though,” Sherlock reminds him. As if John could forget the look on Donovan’s face when she pulled out a wig made of real human hair from a suitcase. 

“The Case of the Wanna-Be Ginger?”

Sherlock groans and rolls his eyes.

₪₪₪

John is pulling on his coat when Sherlock stops him.

“Stay,” he says. Then he says, “Please?”

John smiles. “Maybe.”

Sherlock's grip tightens. 

“I have to think about it,” John says. 

“No you don't,” Sherlock lets his hand fall. John's skin tingles under his sleeve. 

“Good night, Sherlock,” he says.

₪₪₪

John goes home and has a panic attack.

He stands bent over the sink and watches his hands shake against the porcelain. 

Then he showers and shaves and watches telly until his eyes burn.

He goes to bed and can't fall asleep.

₪₪₪

The text comes at eight in the morning: 

> _I'm going to ask you to move back in three times._  
>  _Last night was the first._  
>  _By the third you will agree._  
>  _SH_

₪₪₪

A few days later, Sherlock arrives at the clinic just in time for John's lunch break.

“Sarah's going to kill you,” John says.

“No she's not,” Sherlock holds up a plastic bag. “I brought her some, too. By way of apology. She accepted. This is ours.” 

“A little late for apologies,” John says, shutting his office door. 

“She didn't seem to think so,” Sherlock says as he sets out containers of sushi and chopsticks. John clears his desk and sits down in his chair, pulling a container of California rolls closer. Sherlock moves his own chair to the other side of the desk as John pulls out a handful of napkins. He digs at the bottom for soy sauce, then bunches up the bag and tosses it away. 

John isn't sure why Sherlock is here, other than to get John to move back in. It's a tempting offer, John has to admit. He does miss being able to join in on cases whenever they come up. He's had to miss out on three now since he started talking to Sherlock again.

John nibbles on a piece of salmon, thinking. Sherlock pokes sushi around his container with his chopsticks, soaking the rice in soy sauce as he goes. Here, inside the warmth of John's office, he's shed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and John can see he's a bit thinner than before.

Sherlock catches him watching and beams at him. 

John swallows down the flutter in his stomach.

₪₪₪

> _Need your professional medical opinion.  
>  Barts morgue.  
>  SH_

₪₪₪

Sherlock is elbow-deep in a corpse when John arrives.

“Oh, God,” he grimaces. He feels light-headed, despite himself. Sherlock seems not to notice, spouting off observations to Molly. She flits around the room with a clipboard, marking things down and avoiding the criss-crossing wires that lead to various lights and equipment. Lestrade nods at John from the other side of the examination table, leaning as far away from the corpse as he can manage. 

John slides a cup of coffee onto the table behind Sherlock.

“Anything interesting?” he asks. 

“Rosie Dale, nineteen years old. Died in a car accident, though the rate of decomposition doesn't match with the date she was brought in. That suggests that she died at an earlier date,” Sherlock says. “Also, she's missing body parts.”

“A donor?” John asks. 

Sherlock pulls his hand out of the body and peels off his gloves. Molly hands him her clipboard and Sherlock reads over it before handing it to John. There's a short list on the page: _Floating ribs (4), false rib (left), ovaries, uterus, gall bladder, appendix._ John frowns at it.

“Why would they take all that?” he asks. 

“She wasn't a donor,” Sherlock says. “There was no card on her when they found her. Yet I'm certain that whoever did this to her did it after she was dead. The stitching I cut open was sloppy and definitely not from anyone with a medical background, or any sort of medical training.”

“Why would anyone...” John trails off. Sherlock clears his throat and John knows he's not going to like whatever is coming. 

“There's more,” Sherlock says.

₪₪₪

Sherlock and Lestrade are talking – arguing, more like – outside the morgue. John stays behind with Molly, helping her tidy up the mess of wires and papers Sherlock has left lying around. Molly zips up the body bag and wheels the table back into place.

“Are you all right?” John asks. Molly pulls off her gloves and disposes them in a locked box. When she turns around she offers him a smile. 

“You get used to it,” she says. Then she backtracks, saying, “Well, no. Not that. I haven't... that's new. But I suppose it's not really unheard of, is it? I mean, working down here, people tend to think the worst about us. That we're all... you know.” 

“Still,” John says. “Can't be easy.” 

“I suppose not,” Molly says. She glances toward the door and asks, “How are you doing, by the way?”

“Sorry?”

“You and Sherlock,” Molly says, turning back to him. “Now that he's back. I just – it was difficult, you know. And I know you were angry... I wish I could have said something, but he made me promise not to. He was so worried.” 

“Worried?” John asks. Molly opens her mouth to reply just as the door opens behind them. Sherlock sweeps back into the room, Lestrade on his heels. 

“It's sick, what you're suggesting,” Lestrade says. Sherlock rounds on him.

“The evidence is right there, Lestrade,” he says. “I trust John's opinion completely. I suggest you do the same. You said she died in a car accident, yes? And that there was another passenger in the vehicle? Find them. If it's not them, then I believe that's at least your best place to start.” 

Sherlock bids Molly good afternoon and glances at John before heading back out the door. John offers them both an apologetic smile and follows after Sherlock, letting the door to the morgue swing shut behind him.

₪₪₪

“When I first met you,” John says over dinner. “You said you left your riding crop in the mortuary.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies. He stabs a piece of broccoli and pops it into his mouth, eyes never leaving John's.

“Why did you have a riding crop in the mortuary?” John asks. He cuts into a piece of chicken and chews thoughtfully.

Sherlock smiles. “I'm surprised you're asking this now.”

“I guess between you telling my life-story with one look and us jumping rooftops after a cab, it must have slipped my mind,” John says.

Sherlock stabs a carrot and swirls it through the dressing puddled on his plate. John watches the tendons of Sherlock's hand twitch and flex under his skin. The way his knuckles move is almost hypnotic. 

“I was measuring the formation of bruises after death,” Sherlock says. 

John stops chewing.

“It was for a case,” Sherlock says. 

“You beat a corpse with a riding crop?” John asks. 

“It was the only way,” Sherlock says. 

“Where did you even get a riding crop?”

Sherlock shrugs. “They're not hard to find.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Oh, probably,” Sherlock reaches for his glass of water, then stops. Playfully, he asks,“Why, do you have something that needs a good beating?”

John swallows. 

Sherlock snorts out a laugh and goes back to his meal. John spends the rest of the evening trying not to think about it.

₪₪₪

They stop outside Baker Street again. Sherlock fiddles with his keys and glances up to the second storey. John's gaze follows. The lights are off except for one. The kitchen, if John had to guess. It's late, so Mrs Hudson has already gone to bed. Any fire she started has probably long since burned down to embers.

“Tea?” Sherlock asks.

John tucks his hands into his pockets. “Actually, think I'm going to skip it tonight. Been a long day.” 

“Ah,” Sherlock says. “Yes, well. I can imagine that examining necrophilia cases can be a bit exhausting for most people. Personally, I find them rather fascinating. Easy enough to pinpoint, but the motivations are always interesting.” 

John tucks his chin closer to his chest and doesn't respond. Sherlock continues to fiddle with his keys.

“Well,” he says. “Good night, then, John.” 

“Ta,” John nods. At the last minute he smiles and adds, “Sherlock.”

₪₪₪

John remembers something Sarah said once, in passing, on the night they ended their relationship. It was about Sherlock, of course. In the last three years, the bare bones of any argument John had with any of his girlfriends was about Sherlock.

John had taken Sarah out for dinner in an attempt to make up for missing two prior arrangements from earlier that month. Sarah was very obviously running out of patience. After their food arrived, Sherlock had barged into the restaurant and slid into the booth next to Sarah.

John resolutely avoided looking at her as Sherlock babbled on for several minutes about a new case involving a biker, a woman, and a dead body in a ditch. Sherlock was going too fast for John to catch any of the minute details. Even then, John knew it didn't matter – Sherlock just needed to hear himself talk. About half-way through his explanation, Sherlock suddenly stopped talking, eyes widening in excitement. He then threw a handful of notes on the table and rushed off again. 

“I suppose you'll be leaving then,” Sarah had said. John frowned at the space Sherlock occupied a second earlier. 

“No, I'll – he'll be okay on his own,” John said. Sarah smiled at him but it didn't reach her eyes. 

“Just go, John,” she said. When John didn't move, she sighed loudly. 

John grabbed his coat. 

It was then, just as he was about to leave, that Sarah asked, “Does he treat his girlfriend the same way? Running off at a moment's notice, forgetting plans when a case crops up?”

John fiddled with his zipper. “He hasn't got a girlfriend.” 

“I imagine that's for the best,” Sarah said. “Then again, my bet is that he's an absolute freak in bed. I'm sure that could make up for any shortcomings.” 

Sarah smiled at him again, somewhat bitterly. John knew it was a jab at him, at their relationship. It wasn't the first time Sarah had made her dissatisfaction known. He had been angry with her then. He turned on his heel and left the restaurant, and with it, Sarah.

Sherlock was waiting for him outside, pacing back and forth in front of the window. He stopped when John approached.

“She just dumped you,” he said. 

“Yeah,” John replied, and Sherlock sighed. 

They went on to solve the case, and many more. John had a handful of relationships after Sarah, all of which ended roughly the same way, until eventually he realized it just wasn't going to happen. Then Sherlock died, and John found he didn't have the energy to even try and date anymore. Everyone he met was boring in comparison.

Now that Sherlock was alive again, John can't stop thinking about Sarah's biting remark. 

John knows he's never been all that imaginative when it's come to bedroom activities. Before the army he was able to withstand being tied up and blindfolded, though it wasn't something he particularly craved. 

After the army, he didn't want to try. He didn't even want to think about it.

₪₪₪

John is half-way back to his flat when he receives a text: 

> _Baker Street too quiet without you._  
>  _Need someone to shout at me for shouting at the TV._  
>  _Move back in?_  
>  _SH_

John taps out a reply and hits send.

> _Maybe.  
>  Still considering.  
>  J_

₪₪₪

John goes home and manages to squash his panic attack before it happens.

He showers and shaves and makes himself a cup of tea. He flicks through channels to try and find what Sherlock must be shouting at. There's a trashy late-night talk show on and John smiles. That must be it. 

John goes to bed and slips his hand under the covers. He desperately tries not to think of Sherlock (or the tendons and joints in his hands and wrists, or the way his eyes widen when he's being playful, or the quiet, surprised gasp he lets out when the piece of a puzzle he's been working on falls into place) but ultimately fails. 

He spends the rest of the night being unable to sleep, thinking too much about how the Sherlock in his head is different to the Sherlock in real life. In the morning he feels guilty for wondering if he might like the one in his head a little better.

He goes to work and tries to forget about it.

₪₪₪

It's not that John has anything against extravagant bedroom activities. He was willing to try them, at one point or another. He had a few girlfriends in the past who were into things he wasn't necessarily into. He went along with it anyway, if only to please them.

For some reason, it's a whole new game when Sherlock comes into the equation. Sherlock is demanding in his day-to-day activities. He's intense and extremely focused, has absolutely no sense of self-preservation and jumps head-first into danger at any opportunity. 

And John, well. He's experimented with men before. He's enjoyed it, even. But mostly it was a heavy petting session in the back of a cab after too many pints, or a quick hand job in the tent because someone missed his girlfriend. He's never had an actual relationship with another man before. Definitely never with a man like Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock disregards social cues and oversteps boundaries all the time, every day. During interviews with clients, during working with the Yard. Hell, even going for a walk through the park or going out for dinner. John has long since become used to it, but that still doesn't mean he wants to think about what kind of damage Sherlock would be capable of inflicting in the privacy of his bedroom. Mostly because John can't imagine there being anything Sherlock wouldn't do.

Which is completely, absolutely terrifying.

₪₪₪

> _What time are you done?  
>  SH_
> 
> _Same as always – 5:00.  
>  J_

₪₪₪

After work, John finds Sherlock waiting for him outside. There's a car idling behind him with the words RED FOX painted across the doors. Sherlock is smoking a cigarette, blowing smoke rings into the chilly air. He drops the butt onto the ground and crushes it with the toe of his shoe when John approaches.

“Are you busy?” he asks. John looks from the car to Sherlock. 

“Not particularly,” he says. “But I'm not sure if I want to do whatever it is you have planned.”

Sherlock glances behind him, as if he forgot the car was there.

“Ah,” he says. “I'll explain on the way.”

₪₪₪

They're parked in a dark alley between two tall buildings, waiting. The car is running but the lights are off. 'Rudie Can't Fail' plays quietly in the background. There's a pile of tapes on the floor that apparently were in the car when Sherlock bought it. John avoids stepping on them as best as he can as Sherlock smokes cigarette after cigarette, filling the front seat with the smell of fresh tobacco.

“What is this?” he asks, fiddling with the knobs on the radio. 

“Oh, come on,” John laughs. “Even you have to know who The Clash are.”

Sherlock shrugs and says, “I'm afraid not.” 

“They were big in the eighties,” John explains. Sherlock remains quiet, but he leaves the radio playing.

They're waiting for their potential organ-thief, and the longer they wait the more restless and grumpy Sherlock becomes. Sherlock had explained the whole organization, but John still isn't quite sure if he gets it. From what he could gather, a group of young individuals went out late at night and used back-streets as the setting for their own personal demolition derby. There's a point system involved, and rules, and a signal to recognize other players – which explains the paint on the car door, John supposes. It's an underground organization, Sherlock explained. They're careful to avoid police detection, but that doesn't mean there haven't been slip-ups.

“And the girl, you think she was a member,” John had asked. 

“Most certainly,” Sherlock said. As they pulled further away from the inner-city streets, the traffic spread out around them. “I believe whoever took her apart is a member, as well. Lestrade has a patrol going, but he needs us to lure them out.”

They've been waiting for nearly an hour. John wonders if maybe, somewhere down the line, someone got their information wrong. Maybe the group was tipped off and they fled. John is about to bring it up when a car flies past them, music blasting out the windows. There's a blur of red paint on the side of the car, and although it moves too quickly for John to catch it, he has a pretty good idea of what it says.

“Hold on,” Sherlock says. In one swift movement he turns on the car's lights, shifts the car into gear and slams on the accelerator, sending them rocketing out of the alley and into the side of another car. John clings to seat for dear life as Sherlock throws the car into reverse and speeds off in the direction of the first player.

It takes nearly a half an hour before the game begins to slow and Sherlock is able to radio Lestrade to move in. In a flash of lights and blaring sirens, the players are surrounded by a wall of police. Sherlock hops out of the car and makes his way over to Lestrade as John slowly peels himself off the seat.

On shaking legs he manages to make his way over to where Sherlock is interviewing one of the players. She looks barely eighteen, and absolutely petrified as Sherlock crowds her against the bonnet of her car. She stammers out her answers until Sherlock is satisfied and moves on, steering John in the direction of another player. 

It's then that John manages to catch a glance at their car. It's completely smashed up on one side, with long scrapes of missing paint. The front-end is bashed in, crinkled metal reflecting the blue lights of the police cars. 

John stops walking and stares at it. Sherlock stops beside him, his hand still resting on John's back.

John starts giggling.

Sherlock's hand slides to John's arm and grips him there.

“Are you all right?” he asks. 

“That was insane,” John breathes. “That was absolutely _insane_.” 

Sherlock's lips quirk. 

“Bloody hell,” John shakes his head. “God. You're a hurricane, you are.” 

Sherlock's hand slips away and he clears his throat. 

“We should talk to the next person,” he says.

John glances up at him and Sherlock looks away, turning his attention to the police milling about. Even in the dim light, Sherlock's blush is unmistakable. He adjusts the collar of his coat and walks off. 

Wordlessly, John follows a few steps behind.

₪₪₪

They leave the scene a while later. Sherlock with information, John with a bloody fist, and one of the prime suspects with a broken nose. John figures he's lucky that Mycroft showed up when he did, otherwise he'd probably find himself in handcuffs again. The memory of his last experience, after punching the Chief Inspector, is one that he quickly squashes down.

John listened in a daze, still thrumming with energy from the car chase as Sherlock questioned each player how long they had been driving, when they joined, when the last time they had a collision was. One girl said it was her first time. One man said he started the group ten years ago. 

“Who was the last person to get into an accident?” Sherlock asked. One of the girls – the young one – pointed to a boy standing several feet away.

“Jason was banged up pretty bad,” she said. “Jason Welsh.”

Sherlock marched over to the boy in question. John joined him and tried to keep out of the way. The boy sized Sherlock up, and Sherlock gave him a quick once-over before pointing to a faded bruise on his forehead. 

“That looks painful,” he said. 

“Yeah, mate,” the boy nodded. “Getting your face bashed in by a steering wheel usually is.”

“Then why do you do it?” Sherlock asked.

The boy shrugged. “Why does anyone do anything? We're bored. We get off on it. We're depressed. It's fun. Any number of things sounds about right.”

Sherlock watched him for a moment longer before leaving him, walking over to Lestrade. John kept close, glancing over his shoulder. The boy grinned but otherwise did nothing. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said. Lestrade glanced up and Sherlock pointed to the boy behind them.

“After speaking with all the members, I'm certain that young man is responsible both for Rosie Dale's death and for her postmortem abuse. This car-crashing thing, there's probably some level of parahpilia involved with it. Or they get off on the adrenaline rush, at least,” he had explained. “It's possible that they were distracted during the game and then rammed harder than they anticipated, causing the girl to die. The driver did not, and as you can see, has since recovered from his injuries and rejoined the festivities.”

Lestrade did his best to keep up, pen flying over his notebook. John watched as players were patted down for weapons. 

Sherlock pressed on. “The young man—”

“Jason,” John supplied. “Welsh, she said.”

“—is most likely the necrophiliac we're looking for. There's a distinct possibility that this whole thing is an elaborate murder; the collision was set up to kill the girl. It would require a certain amount of skill to pull off, of course, both in driving and in clean-up, but these lot obviously know what they're doing,” Sherlock had gestured to the group at large and continued. “Stealing body parts is just his way of keeping souvenirs. Sleeping with the body was his reward.”

It was then that Welsh had sneered at Sherlock and said, “I remember you from years back. You were in the papers. I bet you know all about fucking dead bodies, don't you?”

John hadn't thought twice about punching the smug grin off Welsh's face. Sherlock jolted back in surprise, and Lestrade had merely rubbed his eyes, shaking his head. Mycroft had chosen that moment to make his presence known, muttering instructions quietly to Lestrade and ushering Sherlock and John into the back of his car.

As they drive further into the city, the pain in John's fist slowly creeps to the surface the more he calms down. He flexes his hand, wincing at the pain. Mycroft talks quietly on the phone from the front seat. Beside John, Sherlock is silent. But from the corner of his eye, he notices that Sherlock can't seem to stop smiling.

₪₪₪

Mycroft drops them off outside Angelo's.

John scribbles down in his notebook as Sherlock rips dinner rolls into pieces and leaves them on his plate in a pile. He nibbles on a piece here and there, but otherwise spends more time watching John write than he does eating.

“How's your hand?” Sherlock asks when John flexes it for a third time.

“It'll be fine,” John says. It's a bit swollen around the knuckles, but it was worth it, he thinks. 

Sherlock dabs at the oil in the middle of his plate with a piece of bread. John feels him shift his legs under the table, their knees knocking. Sherlock's leg is warm against his. John doesn't pull away, and neither does Sherlock.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says eventually. 

“For?” John asks. 

Sherlock gestures to his hand. 

“Oh,” John says. He feels his cheeks heat and he rubs his fingers over the bruises on his knuckles. He says, “It's no problem.”

Sherlock presses his knee between John's.

₪₪₪

They walk close together against the biting wind as they leave Angelo's. John feels warmth radiating off of Sherlock from beside him. He feels the heavy, scratchy fabric of Sherlock's coat tickle his skin when he side-steps to avoid a young couple walking in the opposite direction. He feels a leather glove brush against the back of his hand, lightly enough that he wonders if it was an accident or not.

“What will you call this one?” Sherlock asks. 

John shakes his head. “I have absolutely no idea.”

Sherlock smirks. “I'm sure you'll come up with something appropriately horrible.” 

“Are you making fun of my titles or the case?” John asks. 

“Bit of both,” Sherlock admits. They stop outside Baker Street. John huddles his shoulders against the wind.

“I've got a new kind of chai,” Sherlock says.

“I'm full from dinner,” John says.

“We could watch television,” Sherlock offers. “I promise I'll only make remarks during the adverts.” 

“I think I'm going to call it a night, actually,” John says, but he's smiling. Sherlock sighs.

“You like making things difficult, don't you?”

“Payback's a bitch,” John says with a grin.

₪₪₪

There are no panic attacks that night, thankfully. He showers and shaves and sets aside the notes for his blog.

John goes to bed and slips his hand under the covers. He tries not to think about Sherlock (or the look of determination he gets when he's on a case, or the way his voice goes soft when he's embarrassed, or the way he bites his lip when John talks), but ultimately he knows it will happen anyway. It does, near the end, and John closes his eyes and gives in.

He doesn't fall asleep right away. But he does, eventually.

He goes to work the next morning, feeling tired but content.

₪₪₪

John goes through the day feeling eager to go home.

He checks his phone in between patients, but each time his screen is blank.

Sherlock doesn't show up during his lunch break, and at the end of the day there's no car waiting for him outside.

John takes the tube home and tells himself that he isn't disappointed.

₪₪₪

The next day, John types up his blog entry, doing his best to leave out the more gruesome details. He resolves to spend the day doing a bit of spring cleaning. It's a good way to keep himself occupied, to keep himself from running back to Baker Street or texting Sherlock. He doesn't want to seem desperate, even though he's already sure he's made up his mind about moving back in.

Cleaning works for a few hours. Then John is bored again and he goes back to his laptop.

₪₪₪

> Only four grammatical errors and one typo. You're getting better at this, John.  
>  Disappointed that you left out all the best details, though.  
>  **Sherlock Holmes 14 April 4:02**
> 
> I can't tell if that's a compliment or not. Also, I didn't want to scar anyone.  
>  **John Watson 14 April 6:29**
> 
> Yet you'll write about me beating a corpse with a riding crop.  
>  I told you, that was one time and it was for a case.  
>  **Sherlock Holmes 14 April 6:34**
> 
> That's not really scarring. A bit weird, but then so are you.  
>  **John Watson 14 April 6:36**
> 
> Thank you.  
>  **Sherlock Holmes 14 April 6:37**
> 
> Not a compliment.  
>  **John Watson 14 April 6:40**
> 
> Yes it was.  
>  **Sherlock Holmes 14 April 6:41**
> 
> No. You're amazing, that's a compliment.  
>  You're weird? Not a compliment.  
>  **John Watson 14 April 6:43**
> 
> You're weird, too.  
>  **Sherlock Holmes 14 April 6:44**
> 
> See. Coming from you, that IS a compliment.  
>  **John Watson 14 April 6:46**
> 
> I meant it as one.  
>  **Sherlock Holmes 14 April 6:48**
> 
> OMG look at you two flirting!!  
>  **Harry Watson 14 April 6:57**
> 
> Not flirting. Complimenting. There's a difference.  
>  **John Watson 14 April 7:00**
> 
> nope ur totally flirting!  
>  **Harry Watson 14 April 7:04**
> 
> Oh grow up, Harry.  
>  **John Watson 14 April 7:05**  
> 

₪₪₪

> _Come over._  
>  _SH_
> 
> _Is this request number three?  
>  J_
> 
> _No. This is 'Mrs Hudson made too much pasta'._  
>  _Come over._  
>  _SH_
> 
> _Maybe.  
>  J_
> 
> _There's cake.  
>  SH_
> 
> _Give me an hour.  
>  J_

₪₪₪

Mrs Hudson has, indeed, made too much pasta. She joins them during dinner, talking happily to John as Sherlock picks at a pair of handcuffs with a paperclip. Sherlock pauses every few minutes to shovel pasta into his mouth, or to make an off-hand comment in relation to their conversation, but mostly he's focused on his task at hand.

After dinner, John carries the dishes down to Mrs Hudson's flat and helps wash them. She fusses with a plate of cake as they talk. 

“He was so quiet when he first came back,” she says, struggling with a strip of clingfilm. “He's starting to act like his old self again. He won't admit it, of course, but he misses you. More than he can bear, some days.”

John drops the plate he's cleaning into the sink in surprise. 

“Oh, don't worry about that, dear,” Mrs Hudson says, flapping her hands at him. “I've got it. You go back upstairs before he catches something on fire or stabs himself in the eye. He blew up my microwave the other day, if you can believe it.”

John laughs. “I can, actually.”

Mrs Hudson gives him a playful nudge toward the door and bids him good-night.

₪₪₪

Sherlock glances up when John slips into the flat again, shutting the door behind him.

“You took your time,” he says. 

“I helped out with the dishes,” John says. “Something you may, one day, be inclined to do when you realize the sort of trouble people go to just to make sure you're eating at least once a week.”

Sherlock grunts dismissively. He's still fiddling with a pair of handcuffs, and as John approaches, manages to snap them open. He let's out a triumphant, “Ha!” and holds the cuffs out. When John doesn't take them, Sherlock jingles them in his hand. 

“What?” John asks.

“I need you to cuff my hands behind my chair,” Sherlock says.

John stares at him.

“Er,” he says. “Why?”

“I'm rusty,” Sherlock says. He jingles the cuffs again. John takes them gingerly and moves around the table to stand behind Sherlock's chair. Sherlock shifts, twisting his arms behind himself and holding his wrists together. John swallows and reaches down, clipping one cuff to Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock moves in his seat, causing John's hand to brush against his arm. John bites his lip and clips the second cuff. 

“Tight,” Sherlock says. John swallows again and does as he's told. The metal clinks together. John stands up straighter and moves to the side. Sherlock beams at him and stretches forward. The discarded paperclip is on the table in front of him. John watches as Sherlock struggles to reach it, face contorting in obvious pain. John reaches forward to brush the paperclip closer and Sherlock stops him in his tracks with a sharp, “Don't.”

“I can do this,” Sherlock says. 

“Without breaking your wrists?” John asks.

“I've done it before,” Sherlock says. “It's just been a while, but I can do this.”

John folds his arms and huffs. It takes several attempts, but finally Sherlock manages to grab the paperclip between his teeth. He twists in his chair, dropping the clip onto his shoulder. It slides down his arm and he manages to catch it in his right hand before it falls to the floor. 

“See?” Sherlock says, a little breathlessly. John watches, fascinated, as Sherlock blindly manages to find the lock-release. The cuffs snap open and drop to the floor with a clatter. Sherlock shakes the feeling back into his wrists and sets the paperclip back onto the table.

“That was...” John laughs and shakes his head. “That was incredible.” 

“I used to practise,” Sherlock says. “You never know when you might need it.” 

John thinks that's probably true.

₪₪₪

John ends up staying well past midnight. They watch a movie, managing to find one Sherlock doesn't turn his nose up at and John hasn't seen before. John makes popcorn and Sherlock continues to fiddle with his handcuffs on the opposite end of the sofa, occasionally reaching out to grab a handful of popcorn. Their hands bump inside the bowl. John throws a kernel at Sherlock's head and scoffs when Sherlock manages to catch it in his mouth.

“Is there anything you can't do?”

“Possibly,” Sherlock says, chewing thoughtfully. “Though I haven't found it yet.”

₪₪₪

Sherlock helps John into his coat. John slips his arms into the sleeves and Sherlock brushes his hand down John's back, straightening the fabric and removing lint. He doesn't pull away, even when John turns, and John realizes then just how close they're standing. So close he can feel Sherlock's breath on his face, smell the mint from the tea they had earlier.

It would be so easy, John thinks, to stand up on his toes and press his lips to Sherlock's. To taste his skin, to run his hands through that dark mop of curly hair. He wonders if Sherlock would pull away, or if he would yield underneath him and let him in. 

Sherlock wets his lips with his tongue. John follows the movement and swallows. 

“Right,” he says. Sherlock doesn't respond, and John nods. “Thanks for the tea.”

“Indeed.”

The rumble of Sherlock's voice makes a home in John's bones. 

John shivers and looks away. He twists the door handle and pulls it open, stepping out into the hall. Sherlock presses closer, leaning against the door frame. He toes the threshold, half inside the flat and half outside in the hallway.

John doesn't want to leave. He wants to crawl back into the flat. Crawl into Sherlock's arms and crawl into his bed. Crawl right down inside him, into the spot between his ribs at the front of his chest. He wants to feel the length of Sherlock's body pressed against his own, warm and solid.

Instead, John turns around and gives Sherlock a nod and a smile. 

“Well. Good night,” he says.

Then, John leaves.

₪₪₪

John can't remember the last time he had a panic attack. It might have been a week ago, maybe more. He doesn't waste any more time thinking about it. Instead, he showers and shaves and heads for bed.

That night, he unabashedly thinks about Sherlock. He doesn't even bother trying to stop. He thinks about Sherlock's hands on his skin, and his breath against his ear. He thinks about the way Sherlock smiles at him, like he's the only person in the world worth smiling at. He thinks about naked skin on naked skin, and Sherlock breathing into him.

He falls asleep easily. In the morning he makes coffee and toast and feels more optimistic than he has in a long time.

₪₪₪

John is swamped at work. He barely has time to buy lunch for himself before he has to rush back to his office. He forgets to check his phone for two days. On the third day he remembers, but there's nothing there.

₪₪₪

For a week John wakes up, goes to work, comes home exhausted, and falls asleep.

It's only at the end of the week that he realizes he hasn't heard from Sherlock in a while. There's nothing on the news or in the papers. No word of any murders, kidnappings or thefts. John's phone is quiet, and his flat is even quieter. He feels lonely. 

He contemplates texting Sherlock to ask him to dinner, or for a walk, or just to see what he's up to. For ten minutes he turns his phone over and over in his hands, but in the end decides to leave it. He doesn't want to seem desperate for attention, or overly eager. There's something brewing behind the surface, brewing between them, and the last thing John wants to do is unsettle it.

He orders take-away for one, watches a film on DVD, and goes to bed.

₪₪₪

That night, John has a nightmare.

He wakes up gasping. He throws himself out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom to splash water on his face. A few minutes later his breathing has returned to normal and he can look at himself in the mirror again.

In his nightmare, Sherlock had fallen. John had pushed him. 

John presses his forehead against the cool mirror.

₪₪₪

In the morning, he sends a text: 

> _Haven't heard from you in a while.  
>  Just checking in. Hope you're okay.  
>  J_

₪₪₪

The response doesn't come until two days later: 

> _Family business came up._  
>  _Mycroft was adamant that I come home at once._  
>  _Barely any service here._  
>  _SH_

John texts:

> _No e-mail?  
>  J_
> 
> _Been busy.  
>  SH_

John sighs and tosses his phone away. He's not quite sure why he's overcome with the sudden feeling of neglect. It's not like Sherlock owes him anything. They're not flatmates anymore, and with John's schedule, they're barely even colleagues. 

John realizes he's being silly. He makes plans with Harry and tries to forget about his hurt feelings.

₪₪₪

Harry slips a silver coin into John's hands as she slides into the booth across from him. There's a number chiseled on both sides and painted blue – a large 3. John runs his thumb over the grooves and hands the coin back to Harry.

“It's nice,” Harry says over dinner. “You get bronze ones at the beginning, for each week. Then when you hit your first month, they switch to silver. You get a gold one each year. It's like a little reward system. It makes you feel like you've actually accomplished something.”

“You are accomplishing something, though,” John says. “You don't need a coin to tell you that.”

Harry chews on her straw and shrugs. 

“It's just nice. It gives you something to look forward to,” she says. “Something real. Even if it's small. That's more than a lot of us could say before.” 

John thinks he's being too hard on her. Judging by Harry's hunched shoulders and tense jaw, she thinks so, too. John rubs his face. He taps his coaster against the table top, just once, as if to snap himself out of it.

“You're right. Whatever helps,” he says. “I'm proud of you, you know.”

Harry grins at him. “Thanks, Captain.” 

Dinner is nice, if a bit quiet. John avoided Harry as much as he could when she was drinking. Hell, even when she first began to go to meetings, John avoided her. He couldn't stand the constant complaining, the judgement in her voice as she spoke about other members in her group. But then she met Melissa, and suddenly Harry seemed to see the benefit of getting sober. 

Things between him and Harry are still a bit awkward at times. At least they're trying, John thinks. Better late than never. Harry could never handle being the favourite, it was far too much pressure on her. And John never knew how to deal with his jealousy over it. Everything fell into Harry's lap, seemingly without effort, and she threw it all away for a bottle. John fought for what he had, and in the end, even his best wasn't good enough. 

Harry, though. Harry smiles at him with warm eyes, her feet swinging under the table like they're kids again. She admitted one night over the phone, after about a bottle of wine, that she had always looked up to John. They're twins, and although John is technically younger, he had always felt somewhat protective of her. That hasn't changed. John thinks that will probably never change. 

“How are you and Sherlock?” Harry asks, digging through her purse for her pack of gum as they walk towards the tube station. 

“Fine,” John says. It feels wrong, like he's lying to her. He isn't, though. At least, he doesn't think he is.

Harry raises an eyebrow at him. “Just fine?” 

“What else would we be?” John asks.

“I don't know,” Harry shrugs. “Shagging?”

“That's not generally something I would say in response to a question like that,” John says. “Even if we were.”

“That's not a 'no',” Harry says, popping a piece of gum into her mouth. “So are you?”

“What?”

Harry grins. “Shagging him?” 

John sighs. “No. I'm not shagging him.”

“Why not?” Harry asks. “He seems like the sort of bloke that would be into some pretty kinky shit.”

John feels the colour drain from his face. Harry doesn't notice.

“Could be fun,” she says.

“You know,” John says. “I really wish people would stop commenting on my flat – on my previous flatmate's potential sexual prowess.” 

“I'm just saying—”

“And I'm just saying: don't,” John warns. 

Harry huffs. “All right,” she says. “Your loss.”

John gives her a hug. She squeezes him tightly and giggles into his ear when he coughs. Then she's waving good-bye, her shoes clapping against the cement and echoing off the walls of the station.

John turns on his heel and walks away in the opposite direction. He takes the long way home.

₪₪₪

John's phone beeps, vibrating against his kitchen counter. He jumps in surprise. 

> _Murder. Young girl, sixteen._  
>  _Possible human trafficking ring located._  
>  _Could use your assistance._  
>  _SH_

John frowns. He wasn't even aware that Sherlock was back in London again.

> _Where?  
>  J_
> 
> _Getting a cab now.  
>  Give me your address.  
>  SH_

John realizes then that, not once since Sherlock's return, has Sherlock seen his flat. He hasn't even asked to see his flat or come over at all. John isn't sure how he feels about that. On the one hand, Sherlock could have been giving him space. On the other, perhaps Sherlock just wasn't interested. 

His phone vibrates in his hands.

> _Cab here. Address?  
>  SH_

John taps out his reply. He turns off the stove, sets his pot of water aside, and goes to get ready.

₪₪₪

“Doctor Watson,” Dimmock greets him when they pile out of the cab. John is surprised to see him. Other than a few glimpses of him at the Yard, John hasn't outright interacted with him since the Banker case.

Dimmock stretches out his hand and John shakes it.

“Always nice to have you tag along,” Dimmock says. “Holmes is a bloody nightmare when you're not around.”

“Sorry. I've been busy,” John says. From the corner of his eye he can see Sherlock shoving a handful of notes at the cab driver, half hidden inside the front window. He turns and rushes to catch up, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. It's started to rain since they left, street lights casting yellow blotches across the ground.

“Where are we?” Sherlock asks. 

There's a pub a quick jog away, the seedy sort with dark booths and a backroom that only certain people have access to. The second floor is mainly offices, and the third is supposedly residential. Sherlock hones in on it right away, pointing to the row of windows at the top of the building.

“Up there,” he says, drawing an invisible line through the air, across the windows, with his finger. “No doubt there's a second staircase that will take you straight upstairs. Perhaps out back, more likely inside. It might have been added in after the building was built. 

“There's been renovations,” Sherlock continues. “The windows on the first and second floor have recently been replaced within the last year or two, but not the windows on the third floor. They're still foggy and off-coloured. The cracks in the brickwork have been sealed, but only the shutters on the first and second floor have been re-painted. If it was residential they'd fix it up in order to sell it. It's not something that most people would notice in passing unless someone changed the colour dramatically, so they haven't bothered. They're trying to be discreet”

Dimmock makes his way inside. Sherlock wanders in after him, followed by John and a few other Yarders, who inspect the pub and speak to a few of the patrons as Dimmock and Sherlock push their way to the back of the building.

They've got a warrant, but the assistant manager – Mr Davies – still gives them trouble. He insists that the pub and the murder of the girl are not related, that they don't have access to the third floor. Sherlock is barely paying attention, instead trailing along the far wall of the manager's office, running his hand along the wallpaper. John watches from behind Dimmock, who somehow manages to keep his temper under control despite the shaking in his hands.

Sherlock pulls something out of his pocket. John barely notices him doing it, barely notices him move at all, but then there's a loud ripping sound and Davies jumps out of his seat.

“What are you _doing_?” he shouts, lunging towards Sherlock. John moves to grab him but Dimmock manages first, forcibly sitting him back in to his chair. 

Sherlock's eyes widen and he feigns an innocent smile. 

“Oops,” he says. “New wallpaper? I imagine so – it's still a bit sticky, hasn't dried quite yet. Oh, what's this?” 

Sherlock pulls the wallpaper back. There's a thin line in the wall, barely visible, stretching out a good eight feet upwards from the floor. Sherlock presses his hand against it, runs his fingers along the seam, eyes wandering along the ceiling before landing on Mr Davies. 

“Looks like you've got a crack in the wall, Mr Davies,” Sherlock says. “I can feel a draft. Now, I wonder. How could I possibly get this door open? There must be a button or a switch of some sort. Perhaps in the desk. Top drawer on the left.”

Mr Davies swallows. John looks at Dimmock, who nods. John rounds the other side of the desk. The drawer in question is locked. 

“They're under the desk,” Sherlock says. “He kicked them there when we walked in.” 

John bends down and fishes the keys out. There are only four on the chain, and it's easy enough to find the right one. John opens the drawer and gropes around for a switch, finding it at the back of the drawer, along the top. The door in the wall slides open and Sherlock tears away the rest of the paper, revealing a narrow staircase.

“This must have been expensive,” he says. “No wonder you didn't touch up the windows on the third floor.”

There's a muffled bang from upstairs. Sherlock glances up, then starts up the staircase. 

Mr Davies jumps up after him, colliding with John on the way. John manages to take him down as Dimmock calls for back-up. Davies struggles against him, kneeing him in the gut. John grunts, shifting his weight so he can hold his stomach. It leaves enough room for Davies to pull a knife from his pocket and stab it into John's side. 

John cries out and falls to his opposite side. Davies delivers one last kick, this time to John's head, before Dimmock is on him immediately, slamming him into the floor and cuffing his hands behind his back. He shouts at Donovan to follow Sherlock up the stairs, and she and a few other officers disappear through the hidden door, footsteps hammering against the staircase. 

Dimmock is next to John, hands flying over John's side but not touching. He's apologizing over and over again as John squirms and gasps in pain, tears streaming down his face. His side feels warm, feels drenched. 

He can hear footsteps and voices upstairs. Donovan shouting at someone to drop it. Someone screams, a gun goes off and the sound of a body hitting the floor above them is the last thing John hears before he passes out.

₪₪₪

John wakes up in the hospital, alone.

His side is wrapped in a bandage, and there's various wires hooked up to his arms and chest, connecting to machines and a heart monitor. The blinds are open, letting sunlight stream in from outside. There's an empty hospital bed next to his. 

John watches his heart rate on the monitor, watches it rise and fall as he struggles to get a hold of himself. He won't let himself jump to the worst possible conclusion. He won't. 

The nurse comes in a little later with a glass of water and a new set of bandages. 

“You're lucky,” she says, wiping away blood from John's side. “You're going to heal up just fine, no severe damage to any major organs, so you'll be out of here in no time.” 

John knows that. He wants to tell her that he's a doctor, and he knows that. He knows Davies only used a small pocket knife, something mostly used for opening letters. The angle he drove in wasn't enough to cause any major damage. A few stitches, maybe a nick here or there. John knows this, and he doesn't really care.

“Did anyone come in to see me?” he asks once the nurse has finished replacing his bandage. 

“Your sister,” she says. “Harry?”

John swallows. “Anyone else?”

“Not that I know of,” she says. Then she adds, “Just buzz me if you need anything, okay?”

₪₪₪

John is released the next morning.

Outside the hospital, John turns on his phone for the first time in days. There's a few messages from Harry, two from Dimmock and one from Lestrade. John reads them and saves the replies for later. He scrolls down and finds one more message waiting for him. The oldest.

John swallows down the pain in his chest and opens it.

> _Went to find you but was told you left._  
>  _I'm fine. Manager shot himself._  
>  _Girls scared but unharmed._  
>  _SH_

John feels the pain in his chest catch fire and burn into anger.

He deletes the message and goes home.

₪₪₪

Later that afternoon, he receives another text from Sherlock: 

> _Went to the hospital but you weren't there.  
>  Are you home or with Harry?  
>  SH_

John deletes it.

₪₪₪

The next day, Sherlock texts again.

John deletes it without reading it.

Later, Sherlock phones him.

John doesn't answer.

₪₪₪

> _Why aren't you picking up?  
>  SH_

John deletes the message a second after it arrives.

₪₪₪

> _I'm sorry._  
>  _I thought you went home._  
>  _I wasn't informed until the next day._  
>  _SH_
> 
> _Lestrade told me.  
>  SH_
> 
> _They had me doing paper work all day._  
>  _By the time I got away it was nearly midnight._  
>  _You never texted._  
>  _SH_
> 
> _Why didn't you tell me?  
>  SH_
> 
> _Something felt off but I wasn't sure._  
>  _I'm sorry, I should have known._  
>  _SH_
> 
> _John, please answer me.  
>  SH_

₪₪₪

John deletes all of them, one right after another.

After that, there are no more text messages.

₪₪₪

John heals fairly quickly, and soon enough he's back at the clinic again. He's a bit slower than normal, and by the end of the day he's sore and tired and just wants to go home. Despite that, he's glad for the distraction. It's been three weeks since the human trafficking case. John hasn't bothered writing up any notes about it. He hasn't updated his blog at all, and he's ignored any comments on the previous entries. He doesn't want to think about it right now.

John is hurt. He's hurt, he's lonely, and he feels abandoned. He's angry at Sherlock. He's angry at him for running off. He's angry at him for leaving him there to deal with Davies. He's angry at him for not texting him sooner, for not calling him, for not immediately knowing John was hurt. John doesn't care if he's being irrational. With anyone else it would be, but this is Sherlock fucking Holmes.

Mostly, he's angry that Sherlock has given up on him so quickly.

₪₪₪

Another week later and John is feeling better. Longer days and warmer temperatures most certainly help. In the morning he walks to work from the tube with his coat unzipped, collar turned up against the morning breeze. He no longer takes a cab home at the end of his shift. The walking helps any pain in his side, and some days he's able to go without his coat.

On Friday gets ready to leave. He packs his bag and stuffs that morning's newspaper under his arm, when there's a knock on his office door. He's booked Monday off to spend with Harry, and has a sinking feeling that it's Sarah on the other side of the door, ready to ask him if he can possibly switch shifts. 

“Come in,” he says. 

When he looks up again, Sherlock is standing on the opposite side of his desk. 

“Sarah said you were still here,” Sherlock says. 

“I'm about to leave,” John mutters. He fishes his keys out of his bag and drops them into coat pocket. He steps out from behind the desk and barely gives Sherlock a glance when he says, “Make sure to close the door behind you.”

“John, wait,” Sherlock stops him in his tracks. John steps back, clenching and unclenching his fist. It's been a while since he's had the urge to punch Sherlock in the face, but he's seriously considering it now. 

“I was going to visit you,” Sherlock says.

“I know that,” John says tightly. “Are you done?” 

“No,” Sherlock says. “I'm not done. I understand you're angry with me. I think I might even understand why—”

“I doubt it,” John says. 

“Then tell me,” Sherlock steps closer to him, raising his hands. “Tell me why you won't speak to me.”

John swallows and looks towards the door. He shakes his head. 

“I'm not entirely comfortable with shouting at you in my office while there are still people here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock drops his hands. His arms and shoulders drop with them. For a tall man, the gesture makes him appear small and vulnerable. Perhaps that's what he's going for, John thinks. Either way, it works, and the anger in his stomach starts to calm. 

“Let me take you to dinner,” Sherlock says. “You can shout at me all the way to the restaurant.”

₪₪₪

John doesn't shout, but he doesn't talk, either.

Sherlock keeps his distance as they walk. He presses close to the edge of the pavement when they pass people walking in the opposite direction, instead of joining John on whichever side he took like he normally does. John is glad for it. He's not sure what he would do if Sherlock touched him right now.

They go for Chinese a few blocks away. Dinner is awkward and quiet. They barely talk, but when they do Sherlock admits he's been avoiding John. He won't explain why. John admits he's been avoiding Sherlock, too. He won't explain why, either. They're a complicated thing, emotions. John understands why Sherlock tries his best to stay away from them. 

In the end they resolve to stop avoiding one another. Sherlock predicts his fortune cookie and gets it wrong. He predicts John's and gets it right. John laughs and tucks the small slip of paper into his wallet. He plans on throwing it out when he gets home, but once he's zipped it up and tucked his wallet away, he knows it's there for good – along with the first one Sherlock ever gave him.

They take the familiar route back to Baker Street. John contemplates saying good-night and walking on home, leaving Sherlock to stand alone in the fading light outside 221 B. But once they arrive, John stops and turns to Sherlock, just as he's always done. 

Sherlock clears his throat. “If you want...”

“I'll skip it tonight, I think,” John says. “I'm a bit tired.”

“All right,” Sherlock nods. “Well, Lestrade wants me to go over some more files on that car-derby case. There's another organization outside of the city that's agreed to talk to us. Apparently they're a different branch. If you would like to come with us. Could be interesting.”

John glances up at Baker Street's windows. From where he's standing, he can see just a smudge of yellow against the wallpaper – Sherlock's painted happy-face that smiled at him every morning when he made breakfast.

“Yeah,” John agrees. “All right.”

₪₪₪

The meeting proves to be informative. The group members are horrified by what happened. John takes down what information he can as Sherlock fires off question after question, Lestrade and Donovan gladly let him take over for once.

They pile into Lestrade's car and head back to the city just as the sun sets. They run into traffic along the way. Donovan fiddles with the radio, looking for a news report as Lestrade taps a beat against the steering wheel, muttering swear words under his breath at the other drivers. 

There's enough room in the back seat for both John and Sherlock to sit comfortably, yet the closer they get to the city, the less space there seems to be between them. By the time traffic starts moving again, Sherlock is practically sitting in John's lap. John isn't quite sure how he manages that, but he's not about to complain. Sherlock is warm against him. He's texting Mycroft angrily, and each time he shifts to grab his phone out of his pocket his hand brushes against the outside of John's thigh. 

It's not until John feels something tickle along the outside seam of his jeans that he considers the possibility that it might not be entirely accidental. At first John thinks it might just be Sherlock's energetic twitching, but when he looks down he notices that Sherlock is – very carefully – running the back of his fingers up the side of his leg. 

John holds his breath. Sherlock turns his hand until his palm is flat against John's thigh. John swallows, exhales quietly and shifts against the seat, opening his knees wider. Sherlock's hand moves slightly, sliding further up. With the pad of his thumb and a minimum amount of pressure, he draws small circles against the outside of John's leg. Barely-there touches that burn hot against John's skin.

Then Sherlock pulls his hand away completely, tucking it into the pocket of his coat. 

John risks a glance at him, but Sherlock is looking out the window. He's about to turn away when he hears Sherlock's voice rumble out beside him, barely above a whisper:

“You're welcome to come over for tea.”

John licks his lips and feels his cheeks heat. 

He clears his throat and says, “Actually, Greg. Just drop me outside Baker Street.”

₪₪₪

John waves as Lestrade pulls away, and Sherlock wanders up the front step outside the flat. John waits until Lestrade's car turns the corner before following.

There's a siren in the distance, travelling across the wind, distorted and broken. Fire, by the sounds of it. Or an ambulance. They both ignore it as Sherlock unlocks the front door, holding it open for John to step in first. They keep quiet as they climb the stairs, carefully avoiding the one with the creak just in case Mrs Hudson is sleeping. 

Once inside the flat, Sherlock peels off his coat and hangs it on the back of the door. He tugs off his scarf and slips it into his pocket, then holds out his hand for John's coat. John slips it off and hands it to him. Sherlock hangs it on the second hook, the one an inch or two closer to the floor. Seeing both coats hanging there brings John back to another time.

Sherlock glides away into the kitchen, stacking loose papers on the table into a pile and moving aside a tray of petri dishes. John follows, leaning against the door as Sherlock begins rinsing mugs in the sink. John tucks his hands in his pockets, feeling awkward. Which is peculiar, he thinks, because Sherlock invited him up. Sherlock always invites him up.

There's a tense sort of energy between them. John wonders, if all the noise in his head, in the room, in the entire world were to turn off, if he would be able to hear it buzzing. It feels like two magnets being held apart a hair's breadth away. Both ends fighting desperately against their bonds and knowing that nothing will happen until someone gives in. 

“I'm going to use the loo,” John says. Sherlock glances over his shoulder and nods before going back to the dishes.

John wanders down the hall and into the bathroom, flicking on the light and shutting the door behind him. It's the exact same as when he left, except now there's only one tooth brush and one tube of toothpaste. Curious, John opens the cabinet door. All of Sherlock's things are cramped to the right side. The left side – John's side – is completely bare. 

John closes the cabinet and leans over the sink. His heart pounds in his chest, and his hands begin to tingle. Barely, but it's noticeable nonetheless. He runs the tap and splashes water over his face. He dries himself off with the hand towel and stares at his reflection in the mirror. 

He'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't know what was coming. He might not know exactly what it is, right down to the last detail, but he has an idea. This has been building for months, if not longer. The control he has worked hard to maintain is now hanging on its last thread, and John is about ready to snap.

He's nervous. Terrified, even. 

John flicks off the light and opens the door.

Sherlock is standing in the hallway. 

John holds his breath.

“I'm out of the kind you like,” Sherlock says. 

John exhales. Sherlock wets his lips.

“When I invited you up, I didn't actually mean for tea.”

John says, “I know.”

“Good,” Sherlock says. Then he lunges forward. 

John barely has time to gasp out a, “God, yes” before he's being crowded against the wall. Sherlock is a tower of warm skin and slender muscle, and he breathes against John's mouth. John leans forward, trying for contact and Sherlock leans back, just far enough to be out of reach. John feels heat pool in the pit of his stomach. He can almost feel it dripping down from inside his bones, like his marrow has melted into warm honey.

Sherlock doesn't kiss him all at once. He takes John apart, piece by piece, until there's nothing left of him. Then, with his hands and his lips and his breath against John's cheek, Sherlock puts him back together again.

₪₪₪

At some point they move into Sherlock's bedroom.

John is on his back with Sherlock between his thighs. The bed creaks with each roll of Sherlock hips against his. Sherlock is holding them both in his hand, sliding hot, tight skin against hot, tight skin. It's filthy, and John can't look away. Sherlock pants heavily against John's neck, tightening his grip when John bucks into his fist. It's all glorious, sweltering heat and friction. Sherlock presses sloppy, open-mouthed kisses into John's skin and murmurs words into John's ear that he can't make any sense of. Not until Sherlock shifts to kiss him properly, shifts and breathes, “I miss you” against John's mouth. 

It's those words, at that moment, that are all John needs. He cries out and comes into Sherlock's hand as Sherlock kisses him again and again, each time following: “I miss you,” “I miss you,” “I miss you.” Each one sounds more broken than the last.

John doesn't really understand it, not then, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care, because Sherlock is moaning and shaking against him. He's tense absolutely everywhere until he breaks and collapses against John's chest. Then he's soft and quiet and pliable, allowing John to move and shift him until they're both comfortable. 

Sherlock doesn't pull away. He wraps himself around John's body, holding him against his chest. Not tight enough that John can't move, can't breathe, can't get away if he absolutely needs to. Just enough to feel him, just enough for John to know that Sherlock is there.

₪₪₪

At some point between sleeping and waking again, John wonders just how wrong about Sherlock he is.

John wonders if, maybe, he doesn't know Sherlock as well as he thought.

John wonders if, maybe, he doesn't really know Sherlock at all.

₪₪₪

John wakes the next morning to find Sherlock still beside him, stretched out and tapping away on his phone.

“Morning,” Sherlock says, not looking up.

“Er, hi,” John says. He rubs at the back of his neck and wills himself not to feel awkward. 

It doesn't work. Sherlock frowns at his phone, flicking something away on-screen with the brush of his thumb. With a sigh, Sherlock turns it off and sets it down on his bedside table. He yawns and stretches, and doesn't look even remotely interested in getting out of bed. 

John clears his throat and Sherlock looks at him. 

“We... um,” John stumbles. 

Sherlock watches him, waiting.

John tries again. “Last night...”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. John thinks he hears a question mark at the end, but he's not sure.

John bites his lip. “We had sex.”

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, then looks down at the end of the bed.

“Yes,” he agrees, finally. “We did.”

A long silence stretches out between them. John doesn't know how to fill it. Sherlock shifts minutely against the mattress, wincing as something in his back pops. Then he turns to John again. He meets his eyes, and John does his very best to hold them. 

Sherlock says, “Do you still like your eggs fried?”

₪₪₪

John goes home and has a panic attack.

He's not even sure why, or how it starts. Just that one minute he's fine, and the next it's like being knocked over by a strong wave. He makes himself tea and watches the news. He showers and shaves and tries to ignore the numbness in his hands. When that doesn't work, he reorganizes a few of of his blog posts and texts Harry. 

Eventually the panic goes away. It always does.

₪₪₪

Lestrade asks them along to another stake-out for the car-derby case. Welsh, as it turns out, was involved with Rosie's death, but was not the thief nor the abuser. In fact, Rosie wasn't even in his vehicle at all – he was the other driver involved in the collision. Lestrade believes that Welsh helped the suspect clear up the accident and move the body, but otherwise was uninvolved in what happened to her afterwards.

Which means, the suspect is still at large.

Sherlock has managed to get the car repaired and repainted, now with the words WHITE DRAGON spray-painted onto the side. Though they're in a completely different part of the city, it's much the same as the first time round: they wait, Sherlock smokes cigarette after cigarette until a player zooms past. The chase goes on much longer and in the end the car is a write-off. Sherlock interviews every player, spending longer on the newer ones. 

It takes him a while, but he narrows it down to two men. The taller one – Smith – cooperates. The shorter one – Thompson – less so. By the time Donovan has shoved both men into the back of police cars, Sherlock is certain Smith is the man responsible. Lestrade takes down the licence numbers of every player involved and issues tickets. 

“I doubt that's the last of them,” Lestrade says later. “The car-crashers, I mean.”

“Most likely,” Sherlock agrees. “Hopefully we have the right person this time and no more bodies will have their organs stolen.” 

“Well, other than by you,” Lestrade says. He beams at Sherlock and claps him on the back. “Well done.”

₪₪₪

Thompson walks the next day. Smith admitted to the whole thing.

John is far more relieved about the ending of the case than he can remember being about any other. For one thing, the whole ordeal is not one he wants to spend anymore time thinking about. For another, he isn't sure if he can handle spending another evening in the passenger seat with Sherlock at the wheel.

₪₪₪

John thinks about the back of Sherlock's hand brushing against his leg. He thinks about the way the street lights slid across his face and glowed on the curls of his hair. John thinks about later, about Sherlock brushing his mouth with his lips. He thinks about the way Sherlock's skin stretches over his bones.

John thinks about Sherlock breathing, “I miss you” into his ear. He thinks about Sherlock moaning quietly, eyes closed and cheeks flushed. He thinks about Sherlock shuddering against him. John thinks about Sherlock breaking apart. 

Mostly, John thinks about the rawness of it all. The tension. He thinks about how completely different it was from what he had imagined sex with Sherlock would be like. From somewhere deep in his mind he can still hear Sarah's words, and his sister's. Even Sally Donovan's, from that memorable first night:

“Stay away from that guy.”

John wonders how long it will last before Sherlock gets bored. John wonders how far he can push himself before it becomes too much and he throws in the towel and admits defeat. He worries it will be a lot sooner than he would like.

John doesn't think he can live without Sherlock again. 

John doesn't think he can live without ever touching Sherlock again, either.

They'll have to compromise, John thinks.

₪₪₪

John wakes up from a restless sleep.

He fetches the newspaper and makes tea, and hopes that the day will go by quickly. 

As he's getting ready to leave, his phone beeps from his bedside table.

> _Client case – death in Herefordshire._  
>  _Booked a room already._  
>  _Interested?_  
>  _SH_

John feels his stomach sink. He is interested, but he can't take anymore time off work. Sarah has been lenient with him in regards to Sherlock, but now that John is on his own he can't afford to rush off at a moment's notice. Mrs Hudson might have let a late rent cheque slip once or twice, but John's current landlords will not.

> _Sounds fun, but working.  
>  Keep me informed?  
>  J_

Sherlock's reply arrives almost immediately:

> _Of course.  
>  SH_

John slips his phone into his jeans and heads to work.

₪₪₪

>   
> **From:** Sherlock Holmes ( sholmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk)  
>  **To:** John Watson ( john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk)  
>  **Subject:** Update
> 
> Lestrade is being insufferable as always and there's no signal on my phone. The lodge is small and there's a couple with a screaming baby in the room next door. They're tourists. You'd hate it. Though the pub down the street has excellent fish and chips, according to Lestrade.
> 
> The case is interesting enough, at least. A man found dead in a small clearing in the forest. Fishing rod and tackle box at the scene, but not used. Ten minutes prior, man had an argument with his son, who recently returned from Bristol. Son obviously the initial suspect, but witnesses saw him leaving the forest before a gun was fired. When the son went back to his father, the only thing he managed to get out of him before he died was something about a rat. Son mentioned he heard a strange noise before the shots were fired, but when he returned to the scene his father was alone.
> 
> Son claims noise sounded like “oo-ee”. Are you up to date on your bird calls?
> 
> I'd send photographs of the clearing but I doubt they'd make much sense.
> 
> Sherlock

₪₪₪

>   
> **From:** John Watson ( john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk)  
>  **To:** Sherlock Holmes ( sholmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk)  
>  **Subject:** Has anyone ever told you that your e-mail address is a bit long?
> 
> I could do with some fish & chips. I had a very long, boring day as I'm sure you're already well aware of and probably expected. 
> 
> Can't think of any bird that goes “oo-ee”. I had an Australian mate in the army though and he would often make a similar noise when he wanted our attention. His sounded like “coo-ee”, though. 
> 
> Let me know how it goes,
> 
> John

₪₪₪

The next day drags on painfully slow. John is eager to finish work so he can go home and check his e-mail. He reads the paper during his lunch break and finds an article about the murder. John catches Sherlock's name in the article, and Lestrade's, and is suddenly hit with a wave of nostalgia.

John avoided the newspapers after Sherlock's death, then again after his return. It feels surreal now to see his name mentioned in passing again, like nothing's changed. John supposes that, for the rest of the world, things haven't.

He finishes his lunch and heads back inside his office.

₪₪₪

>   
> **From:** Sherlock Holmes ( sholmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk)  
>  **To:** John Watson ( john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk)  
>  **Subject:** Yes, thank you
> 
> Spot on – you're amazing! 
> 
> Both father and his killer spent time in Australia together in the sixties. The victim was not saying 'a rat' as the son first thought, but 'Ballarat' – the killer's nickname. Apparently. They were part of a gambling team, back in Australia. Victim won a fair amount of money during a game, then left to go back to England. Killer believes victim cheated, and that half of the winnings are rightfully his. 
> 
> Killer is dying – cancer. He admitted to the murder. Only has a few months to live. There's also a whole marriage scandal sort of thing involved as well, but that's hardly as interesting. 
> 
> Should be back in London tomorrow.
> 
> Sherlock

₪₪₪

The next evening, there's a knock at John's door. He opens it and finds Sherlock standing in the hallway.

Sherlock holds out a white plastic bag and says, “I thought we could eat in tonight.”

₪₪₪

Sherlock paces back and forth in front of John. He gestures with his mug of tea, somehow managing not to spill a drop, even in his excitement. As it turns out, the marriage aspect of the Ballarat case is rather interesting – at least to John.

The victim had threatened to remove the boy's name from his will if he married the killer's daughter. They were an old-fashioned sort of family, whose name meant everything. The girl had an ill reputation that could ruin them. Sherlock seemed content to dismiss the murder as the result of a bitter feud, fuelled by the victim winning what the killer thought was rightfully his. 

When John explains the killer's true motivation – that he wanted his daughter to be financially comfortable – Sherlock stops pacing and listens. 

“I didn't consider that,” he admits. “Revenge seems reason enough.”

“Didn't you say once that love is a more vicious motivator than hate?” John asks. 

“That doesn't sound like me,” Sherlock sniffs.

“I'm pretty sure you did,” John says. “After our first case.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock says, sipping his tea. “Perhaps I was trying to appeal to you so that you would move in with me.”

John snorts and goes back to his notes.

₪₪₪

John's flat is dark. There are tea cups in the sink and take-away containers on the counter. John's notes lay spread out over his coffee table in the living room. There are scribbles in the margins, a few corrections over grammar errors. An entire sentence is scratched out and rewritten.

Everything is quiet. The door at the end of the hall is shut.

Behind the door is the bedroom, where Sherlock climbs into John's lap. He's heavier than he looks, but John finds he doesn't really mind. Not with Sherlock's hands tracing patterns on his skin and lips trailing over John's jawline. Everything is slowed down and muted, far less frantic than their first time. Sherlock's hair tickles John's face, and his soft hums vibrate against John's skin.

It's lovely, John thinks. He feels warm, content. Right now, he feels like he's the only thing in the world that matters. Sherlock lavishes attention on him, watching John's reactions with eyes wide in fascination. He smiles, more to himself than to John, and swipes his hand down John's chest and over his neck, fingers gently circling the scar on his shoulder.

John thinks it's lovely, but for some reason he can't help but feel like a hammer is about to drop from the sky. That Sherlock is about to grow teeth and talons and claw into him, hold him down and try to break him. And once John starts thinking about it he can't stop, and suddenly he's panicking again.

Sherlock notices. Of course he does. 

“What's wrong?” he asks, pulling back. John hates himself, hates the way his hands threaten to shake on Sherlock's skin. He hates the rolling queasiness in his stomach. Deep down he knows he has nothing to worry about. At least, he thinks he doesn't. He really, really hopes he doesn't.

“John,” Sherlock says, rolling off John's lap and onto the mattress. “John, talk to me. What did I do wrong?”

“It's not that,” John breathes, closing his eyes. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“Then what is it?” Sherlock asks. John palms at his eyes and tries to control his breathing. 

“You—” he starts, then stops. “I just. I...” 

“Whatever it is that you're not saying because you're worried it'll upset me,” Sherlock says. “Say it.”

John moves his hands and looks at him. Sherlock's expression is soft, inquisitive. John worries that if he blinks, Sherlock's expression will fall into careful blankness.. 

“I'm not sure if I'll be able to give you the things you need,” he says in a rush.

Sherlock searches his face.

“What sort of... things... might I need that you won't be able to give me?” he asks. He looks genuinely confused, and it only makes John feel worse. He rubs his nose and looks away.

“Just,” John swallows. “I don't know. This can't be too exciting for you.”

Sherlock stares at him. 

“If you're into pain or, or tying people up or – or beating your partner with a riding crop. Or whatever, then that's fine. I get that,” John says. “I'm just not sure if I'll be able to do that. I mean, I'll... I'll try. But. I don't know.”

Sherlock frowns. He looks away, eyes roaming before he turns back to John.

Finally, he asks, “Why would I want to beat anyone with a riding crop?” 

John swallows. “You beat a corpse with a riding crop.”

“So?” Sherlock asks. 

“I just... assumed,” John says.

“You assumed that because I beat a corpse with a riding crop – once, and for work – that I'd be into, what? Sadomasochism? BDSM? Leather?”

“Well. Your ideas of fun do run a bit on the... intense side,” John says.

“How I am in public is not how I am in private,” Sherlock says.

“No,” John agrees. “You're usually worse.”

Sherlock sighs. John isn't sure, but he thinks he sees him roll his eyes. The gesture makes his nerves calm a little. If Sherlock is rolling his eyes, then John has most likely done or said something stupid. In this case, John takes it as a good sign. He lets out a nervous giggle, which he cuts off immediately. Sherlock's lips twitch.

“So you're not... into that sort of thing?” John asks carefully. Hopeful. 

“To be fair, John, I'm not really _into_ sex, in general,” Sherlock says. He adds, “Obviously I'm willing to make some exceptions. But sex is tedious and complicated enough as it is. It's extremely rare that I enjoy someone's company enough to engage in it at all, so I'd rather not muck it up any further by adding more complications. Or riding crops.”

“So all this,” John gestures between them. “Just... this. This is fine with you?”

John senses another eye-roll coming, but Sherlock visibly squashes it down. Instead he shifts closer, nudges John's nose with his own and runs a hand up the side of his neck, into his hair. John shivers against him and Sherlock breathes against his lips.

“This is absolutely fine,” he says.

₪₪₪

“So,” John begins. “If you're not into, I don't know. Bondage, or whatever, then what are you into?”

It's been a fairly dull evening. Sherlock has been fiddling with an experiment on bread mould for the last three hours while John watches television and makes cup after cup of tea. It's raining outside, and too windy for a walk even with an umbrella. John hadn't planned anything for the day, and Sherlock seemingly just wanted the company. 

Regardless, John feels a bit bored, and more than a little curious. It's been nearly two full weeks of nothing but client cases, and so he hasn't had the opportunity to ask Sherlock about, well. About anything to do with their relationship, really. 

Sherlock looks up from his microscope and gapes at him from across the room.

“I mean. You weren't a virgin,” John says. “You must be into something.”

Sherlock frowns, then. “How are you so sure I wasn't a virgin?”

John swallows his mouthful of tea. 

“Um,” he says. “I guess, well. I just assumed, because of what you said.”

“I suppose that depends on what your definition of virginity is,” Sherlock says, going back to his microscope. “The whole thing is rather flexible, not to mention a ridiculous concept to begin with. But if you consider losing your virginity simply as having a sexual experience, with or without another person involved, then no. I wasn't a virgin before you. But if you consider it any form of penetration, then I still am one.”

John nods. “Right. Okay. Fair enough.”

Sherlock smirks. 

“I still stand by what I said before,” he says. “I'd much prefer to just use my body as a means to give or receive sexual pleasure. I believe there are an unlimited number of sexual experiences you can have with another person using just your body alone.”

“I don't know,” John says. “You're bound to run out eventually.”

“I'm willing to find out,” Sherlock smiles at him playfully. 

John feels his cheeks heat. He shakes his head. 

“You're avoiding answering the question.”

Sherlock beams. “So I am.”

“Is that because you don't actually know?” John asks. 

“No. I have a fairly good idea, about some things,” Sherlock says. “I just want you to find out for yourself.”

“Lazy git.”

Sherlock sniffs and slides another specimen under his microscope. John finishes his tea and browses channels. Occasionally he catches Sherlock's eye. Most times, though, he doesn't. Which is perfectly all right.

It's starting to feel a bit more like old times, John realizes. Sherlock ignoring him until he needs him, whether for a second opinion or just to stand there and nod while he hears himself talk. By the time midnight settles in, John is falling asleep and Sherlock is still playing with his bread mould. John decides to call it a night and announces he's heading home. Sherlock doesn't get up from his chair. He does accept the kiss John plants on his lips before he leaves, though. That's perfectly all right, too.

₪₪₪

John takes three extra shifts at the clinic one week. He leaves work exhausted, heading straight home to a quick dinner, shower and to then to bed. He manages to text back and forth with Sherlock four times each night before he falls asleep, his phone clattering onto the floor and startling him awake an hour or two later.

Sarah gives him a day off afterwards. John spends the evening at Sherlock's, helping him with a small case Mycroft assigned him as payback for totalling a car bought with Mycroft's money. The case is boring, just a few missing files that turn out to be in the company's database, just in the wrong place. 

Sherlock takes John to bed. He runs his hand down John's side and over his shoulder, and he kisses his face. John hums happily, enjoying the attention. It only takes a few minutes before he's fast asleep. 

He wakes up again four hours later in a panic. Sherlock flicks on his bedside lamp and rubs soothing circles along John's back until he calms down. Finally, he's able to sleep again, Sherlock's arm wrapped possessively around his middle.

₪₪₪

Sarah buys him lunch the next day. When John offers to pay for half, she waves it off, saying she owes him for coming in three extra shifts. John knows that, while that may be true, she's been dating again. If she's buying lunch, she must have found a match and wants to tell him about it. John is happy for her, so he doesn't mind when she spends the first twenty minutes of their break going on about a man named Tyler. He's apparently younger than her. And also from America, she says. John doesn't really understand the appeal, but he keeps quiet.

“You're in a good mood lately,” Sarah says shortly after she's finished gushing. “Even the patients are noticing.”

John laughs. “Are they really?”

“Mmm,” Sarah nods. “I keep hearing about what a lovely gentleman you are. I must admit I've been tempted to tell them about the time you got me kidnapped by a Chinese circus.” 

“Inadvertently,” John reminds her. 

“Still.”

“You're never going to let that go, are you?” John asks, unable to keep back a smile. 

“Well, it _was_ only the most terrifying night of my life,” Sarah says. Playfully, she adds, “But I'm sure I'll get over it. Eventually.”

They eat quietly for a few minutes. John watches people walk past, men in suits, women in dress-skirts. Mothers with children, fathers with children. Young couples holding hands, an old man with a dog, a group of girls no older than fifteen. John wonders if Sherlock has ever gone people-watching before. He must have done, John thinks. Still, it could make for an interesting activity.

As if reading his thoughts, Sarah says, “Sherlock hasn't come round lately. Is he all right?”

“He's fine,” John says. “Busy, I guess. There was a case near Ross, so he was away. Now his brother has him working on some... networking, hacking sort of thing. Leaked files. Nothing too extreme.”

Sarah nods and dabs at her mouth with a napkin. 

“But you're all right?” she asks. “You two?”

John nods. “We're all right. Never better.”

It's nice, John thinks, being able to say he's fine and actually mean it again.

₪₪₪

Sherlock's hands slide slowly up the back of John's thighs, gripping the top of his jeans and his belt and pulling both down as he takes John into his mouth. It's all liquid, velvet heat and a soft tongue running along tight skin. John bites his fist to muffle the sound he makes.

“Don't,” Sherlock murmurs. He's breathless and flushed, lips shining dark and loose curls sticking to his forehead. 

“Mrs Hudson,” John reminds him.

“Isn't a prude,” Sherlock says. He nuzzles the inside of John's thigh, his breath warm against John's skin. He continues, saying, “I'm sure she has a good idea of what we've been getting up to lately. Anyway, she doesn't care. In fact, she's probably thrilled. So, please. If you wouldn't mind, I want to hear you.”

John hesitates, but eventually lowers his hand.

Sherlock looks up at him, quietly says, “Thank you,” then takes John into his mouth again. John's legs threaten to give out from under him. Sherlock holds him tighter, humming around him and doubling his efforts. With that sharp, critical mouth and those soft, plush lips wrapped around him, eyes closed lightly like he's perfectly content exactly where he is, John thinks Sherlock looks completely debauched. 

He looks utterly filthy. 

White-knuckled, John clings to the edge of the counter.

“Fuck,” he breathes. Sherlock pulls him closer, moans deep in his throat. John can feel it vibrate all around him. It goes straight through his skin and veins and into the core of his body, into his bones. His hips buck on their own accord and he breathes, “ _Oh_ , hell. Sherlock, _yes_.”

Sherlock drops his hand and starts to tug at his own belt. With shaking fingers, he pulls clumsily at the fly of his trousers. John whimpers and closes his eyes. He slips one hand into Sherlock's hair and scratches against his scalp. 

“I need,” he swallows. “I – I need more. Your teeth. Use your – use your teeth.”

Sherlock pulls his hand out of his own trousers and wraps it around John. He glances up, then John feels it. He feels the ghost of sharp teeth scraping softly at his skin, and he loses it. Completely loses it. 

John slips down the counter and onto the kitchen floor, boneless. Instantly Sherlock's mouth is on his, tongue sneaking past his lips to find John's. His hand sinks back into his trousers. John watches Sherlock come undone over him, moaning into his mouth.

₪₪₪

“So,” Sherlock says, later on. Once they've cleaned up and rearranged themselves. Once they've finally decided on what they want to do for the day and what deli they want to go to for lunch. They're walking down the street in the rain, avoiding puddles, and Sherlock says, “So.”

He says, “Teeth.”

John blushes. He tucks his chin against his chest, his hands into his pockets and says, “Yeah. Teeth.”

₪₪₪

It's another week before John is able to get away from the clinic. Sherlock texts and e-mails him updates about the case he's working on – a supposed murder that turns out to be a self-sacrifice for a snuff film. It's on the internet for a grand total of four minutes before authorities are able to shut it down. John knows that won't do much, but the company in question has been charged, at least.

When John is finally able to tag along, it's one of the more peculiar cases he can remember Sherlock ever taking. Penguins from the London Zoo have been going missing, around the same time as a group of protestors started parading in front of their pens. When the call comes about in about an odd odour and funny sounds, Sherlock manages to link the two together.

As it turns out, one of the protestors is roommates with a zookeeper, and together they had been smuggling penguins out of their confinements for weeks and keeping them in a spare room. Eventually the noise and smell got to be too much and the neighbours complained. 

Everything seems to be wrapping up smoothly, until animal control arrives. John is watching them herd the penguins together and put them in cages, when one of the birdnappers – the protestor – breaks free and takes off out of the building. In a flash, Sherlock and Lestrade are after him. 

“That bloke,” one of the animal control officers says to John as she gently lowers another penguin into a cage. “Is he that detective from the papers?” 

“Something like that,” John says. 

It doesn't take them long to round up the rest of the birds. A few officers take pictures on their phones. The zookeeper answers questions, crying and apologizing, as Donovan takes notes. John sends Sherlock a text and does what he can to help – which, at this point, is not much at all.

Half an hour later, still no reply and feeling drained, John heads home.

₪₪₪

> _I'm fine. Culprit, not so much – broken nose._  
>  _Lestrade furious – hilarious._  
>  _Will be by soon._  
>  _SH_

₪₪₪

The bruise starting to form around Sherlock's eye is the first thing John notices when he opens the door to the hallway. Sherlock gives him a small smile, just out of the corner of his mouth, and arches an eyebrow.

John's hand drops to his side and he sighs. “Who was it this time?”

“The suspect, actually,” Sherlock says. 

“Have you put ice on it yet?” John asks. 

Sherlock waves it off. “It'll be fine.”

John spends the next twenty minutes holding a frozen bag of peas to Sherlock's eye. At first, Sherlock twists and turns in his chair, trying to get away from the cold. Then he gives in with a sigh and holds still. He tells John what happened after he ran off, how he managed to stop the culprit by tying his scarf across two poles, close to the ground. John listens quietly, lifting the bag of peas every so often to check the swelling. 

The next time he does it, Sherlock stops him, putting his hand over John's. The contrast is weird, John thinks. Ice cold against his palm, and warm along his knuckles. 

“I'm actually here to take you out for dinner,” Sherlock says. “I'm starving.”

“When was the last time you ate?” John asks.

“I don't know,” Sherlock says. “What day is it?”

John rolls his eyes.

₪₪₪

They walk side-by-side under streetlights, shoulders bumping with every other step. John doesn't move away, and neither does Sherlock. There's something comforting in that, John thinks. There's something warm in his stomach, and it spreads with every nudge of Sherlock's shoulder against his.

They turn the corner and John feels his heart start to speed up in his chest as 221 B draws closer. Sherlock has gone quiet, his hand moving in his pocket, no doubt fiddling with his keys. John knows what's coming, but to speak out of turn feels wrong, somehow. Like he's breaking a rhythm. 

They stop and turn toward one another. Sherlock looks down the street at nothing in particular. John follows his gaze. Sherlock's keys jingle in his pocket, muffled against the fabric of his coat and the leather of his gloves. 

“Would you like to come up for tea?” Sherlock asks, still looking down the street. The retreating lights of a car break through the thick fog settling in between the buildings. Other than the sound of traffic on the main road, it's eerily quiet.

John clears his throat. “Yeah, actually. Love some.” 

Sherlock looks at him and grins.

₪₪₪

John wakes in the morning to find the other side of the bed empty.

He can smell coffee brewing, and he hears the quiet murmur of voices from the television in the living room. There's a quiet bang from the front hall, then the sound of footsteps on the stairs. 

John stretches and, remembering his alarm, lazily grabs for his phone. There's a text message waiting for him, from sometime earlier that morning when he was sleeping:

> _I'd ask you to move in, but I already know the answer._  
>  _Key to the flat is in your left coat pocket._  
>  _Welcome home._  
>  _SH_

₪₪₪

> _P.S. We're out of milk.  
>  SH_


End file.
